Hi there! So here's the thing… I cried while writing this, because I just have a lot of feelings, but you might not. I hope you enjoy this painfully angst-y fanfiction of pain, inspired by the song "My Last Breath" by Evanescence and written for the Let's Write Sherlock! Songfic challenge.
John wasn't sure how it happened. All he knew was that one moment, Sherlock was taunting a mad man with a gun, and the next, he was on the floor, clutching his stomach, where blood was spilling mercilessly out of the wound created by the bullet. The man who shot Sherlock seemed about as shocked as John was, which was the only reason he managed to grab his pistol and get a shot off. Suddenly, the other man was crumpled on the ground as well, and John dropped to his knees beside the detective.
"Sherlock," he barely managed, his voice breaking. "Sherlock, stay with me." He'd seen a number of mortal wounds in Afghanistan, and he knew one when he saw it. He put pressure on it with one hand as he dialed Lestrade's number on his mobile with the other.
His voice didn't sound like it belonged to him. It was eerily calm now, even though he himself was a mess of complex, swirling emotions. "Greg, Sherlock's been shot. Get me an ambulance." Then he hung up, looking down at his friend.
"You're going to be fine," he whispered. "Just hold on."
Sherlock smiled faintly. "We both know that isn't true."
"Don't talk, you're delirious. You're going to hurt yourself even worse," John whispered. He could feel the tears threatening to well up. He had to keep it together, for Sherlock. "Here, let me prop you up a bit." John lifted Sherlock's torso very slightly, sliding his knees beneath him.
Sherlock winced. "John, I'm not going to make it."
"Yes, you are," John said, and it sounded almost like an order. He realized, holding Sherlock there, one hand in his dark curls and the other on his stomach, that it would have been quite pleasant under different circumstances, perhaps with Sherlock laying in his lap on the couch while they watched crap telly. He would have liked to do this more often. One tear slid out from beneath his lashes as he closed his eyes, almost able to picture the scene.
When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was staring up at him, his gaze full of pain. "Stop thinking of me as though I'm already dead." He slid his hand on top of John's on his stomach. "I'm dying John. And there are some things I want to say to you." Sherlock winced again, and tightened his grip on John's hand as much as he could, but he could already feel the life draining out of him.
Another tear escaped John's eyes. "Alright then, say whatever it is you want to, but you're not going to die."
"I am, John," Sherlock argued. "That's the point." He winced again. "I always liked the concept of fragility. I saw it as a weakness, certainly, but I thought in itself, it was beautiful." He let out a short, harsh laugh. "I suppose I am what I never wanted to be, now. Weak. In death, I am juxtaposition to everything I worked for in life. Fitting."
The tears were flowing steadily now, dripping on Sherlock's abnormally pale face, which was contorted in a strange mixture of pain and admiration, the same look of admiration he got when he was studying something interesting. "Don't push yourself, Sherlock. Lestrade and the others will be here soon."
"Not soon enough," Sherlock answered. "I was never close to anyone, John. I never had any friends. Never a partner of any sort. I never really felt anything."
John shook his head in bewilderment. "Why are you telling me this?"
Sherlock took a moment, breathing carefully. "Because that changed when I met you. You are special. The best friend of a man with no friends. The only person who stuck around long enough for me to even bother trying to get close to. And I did, John. Didn't I?"
"Of course," John replied, voice choked.
Sherlock closed his eyes, the pain leaving his face, and John was afraid for a moment that he was dead, but then the detective opened his eyes again. "You have made me feel like I'm an actual person. I always thought I didn't belong with normal people, but you showed me that not everyone is inclined to hate me."
John bit down on his lip—hard enough to draw blood. "Sherlock, you're fantastic."
"Thank you," Sherlock whispered.
John's eyes widened. "Sherlock—"
"Thank you for everything, John." Sherlock's eyes were beginning to glaze over slightly. "I need you to know—" he cut himself of as he winced again.
John lowered his head slightly. "Careful, you're talking too much."
"I need you to know, John," Sherlock responded quietly.
John leaned closer. "What?"
"I love you," Sherlock murmured. "And I'm not afraid of death, because you made my life mean something."
John leaned down even closer. "I love you too. Now don't you dare die on me, you bloody git." John kissed Sherlock tenderly, pulling back in time to see a slight smile form on the man's face before paramedics barged into the room.
Sherlock noted the relieved look on John's face, then everything went black.